


Dry Run

by Jenavira



Category: Yellow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-19
Updated: 2007-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 06:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1635311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenavira/pseuds/Jenavira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If I'm very lucky, Goh has found a giant pile of evidence, turned on all the lights to let me know where he is, and is making tea waiting for me to show up. That doesn't seem likely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dry Run

**Author's Note:**

> Can we take a poll on how many people pick up new fandoms for Yuletide because their original offer turned out to be too scary to write? I can't be the only one. My most profound apologies, but I wasn't able to get my hands on volume 4 before this was due, so I hope I'm not horribly brutalizing canon or anything. But I fell in love with these guys (I love me some buddy cop slash), and I hope I got them well enough for you.   
>  Many thanks to fedora_hat for her beta-read, and to the Man from U.N.C.L.E. fandom for their kind loan of sarcasm, crazy villainess, and interesting bondage.   
> 
> 
> Written for scheherezhad

 

 

Hi, my name is Taki, and I'm a moron. I can prove it, too. I am, for instance, currently standing at the back gates of a freaking manor house, with no cover in sight in case security comes around, watching some lunatic excuse for a lockpick try to break his way through a piece of hardware that has at least three microchips in it and probably costs more than what I pay for rent in a year. Since only a moron would be in such a suicidally stupid position, I must be a moron. I should have known.

Allow me to backtrack. Like I said, I'm Taki, and the lunatic excuse for a lockpick is Goh. We're snatchers -- freelancers, I guess you could say. We work for the owner of the Cafe Roost. He slips me codes, I pick up assignments, and problems go away. Drug problems, mostly. Or -- well, up to last month that was how it worked. And if I could remember who talked me into working with a partner, or who talked me into working with _this_ partner, they'd have some problems of their own.

"You done yet?" I hiss, trying to hunch into the shelter of an openwork metal fence.

There's a click, and the gate swings open an inch. Times like this I think Goh might almost be worth all the trouble. "Just making sure you got a good view," he murmurs, turning to wink at me over his shoulder before straightening up. Almost.

This was supposed to be reconnaissance -- not looking for actual evidence of the drug ring this Mr. Glosse, an English guy who seemed to have a home on every continent, was rumored to be running. We were just trying to get some kind of a handle on the situation. Hey, I never said our job was easy. But this would be why I don't know if security's coming around in ten minutes or ten seconds, what kind of alarms might trip if we head off across the huge lawn, what we'd find when we get to the house if we make it that far. What the hell had I said that set Goh to picking that lock at a time like this?

"And I'll collect my fifty later," Goh said as he eased the gate open.

Oh. Well, that.

I swear I don't know how this happened. One day I was going along, perfectly happy with my life. Sure, I was single, but that happens to everyone sometimes; sure, I worked alone, but I was great at my job so it wasn't a problem. Rarely was a problem. Okay, I bungled one badly and the boss was real understanding and I felt like shit. I don't remember who pointed me to Goh -- it must have been a dozen people, or I'd definitely remember something like that -- and I went to go see if he was okay. And next thing I know, I've got this partner with no personal space who has, have I mentioned?, informed me that part of having him as a partner is living with him. He says I'm not his type, but I'm not sure I believe him.

I don't know why I didn't call it off right then. But it's been a couple of weeks now, and it's starting to look like I'm stuck with him.

"I think we should split up," Goh says, quiet but not whispering. "I'll go that way around the house --" he pointed around the corner-- "and you go the other. Faster that way."

"Less likely we'll get caught," I mutter, and Goh flashes me a grin. "Fine." He's gone in moments; he's almost as good at sneaking as he is at lockpicking. I'm better, though.

Unfortunately, I don't have a chance to show off, because after a minute or two I'm pretty sure there's nothing and nobody here. No guards, no alarms, no lights in the windows, and, of course, no way in, which is a pity because getting to poke around inside would probably be the only thing making this trip worthwhile as anything other than Goh's daily ego boost. So it's getting cold, I'm tired, I'm annoyed, I'm a little pissed at Goh for making me so nervous for nothing, and I'm...all the way around the back of the house by the cellar. Goh went the other way; shouldn't he be here? But the yard is empty except for me, and the only light is seeping around the cellar door in a very obvious way. If I'm very lucky, Goh has found a giant pile of evidence, turned on all the lights to let me know where he is, and is making tea waiting for me to show up. That doesn't seem likely.

There's a narrow staircase behind the door, and I don't really have much choice, so I creep down the stairs as quietly as I can, given that I can't see a thing in the torchlight. Who lights their stairwells with torches anymore, anyway? I get an idea when the stairs end in a slightly-open door, which I hide behind in order to peer around. People who keep torture chambers in their basements, that's who.

It looks like the Spanish Inquisition has moved in. There's a full-sized rack -- custom ordered, I wonder pointlessly -- an Iron Maiden, a whole pile of pointy-looking metal things that I don't want to think about. Why do we run up against these crazies so often in this job? And since no torture chamber is complete without both torturer and victim, there's Goh, chained to the wall almost exactly opposite my door, and advancing on him with her back to me, a tall, willowy woman with billowing blonde hair. That's enough for me to recognize her -- Glosse's wife. And here we'd thought he was behind the whole shady deal; maybe it really was her all along.

Across the room, Goh is rolling his eyes at her. "Is all this really necessary?" I hear him say. "I mean, it's a little tacky, don't you think?" I let my head fall against the door slightly, careful not to make a noise. I take it back; there are crazies on both sides of the equation.

"But surely," she said, "a man such as yourself understands the importance of taking satisfaction in one's own work..." While she's talking, I ease the door open a tiny bit farther. I'm in luck -- not only does the door not creak, it reveals a fireplace on the other side of it, with two pokers lying across the coals. I decided not to wonder why they'd been left there and just go with it.

Goh doesn't make a sound as I come into the room, doesn't twitch an eye in my direction, but I know somehow that he knows I'm there. Maybe it's the way he keeps baiting Mrs. Glosse to keep her distracted -- although if he's not careful pretty soon she's going to be way more distracted than he'd like.

When I'm finally within striking range -- as if I could hit a woman in the back of the head with a hot poker; I wish I had a plan -- Goh says, "Of course, the most practical thing to do now would be to admit everything and come along quietly." He finally makes eye contact with me. God, he looks smug.

Mrs. Glosse turns around in a whirl of white dress and blonde hair. Her eyes are very wide, and her mouth is an attractive little pout of surprise. Kind of hot, really. Pity she's _nuts_. Her eyes widen and she gasps a little, and I almost feel bad about it but then she says, "Oh, well done. Very nicely done." She hands me the keys and then backs up to a second set of chains herself; when I don't move to chain her up immediately she says, "Well, finish it properly." I find I'm having a hard time dealing with the crazy; my eyes find Goh's, entirely without intending to, and he shrugs and says, "It should keep her in one place for a while."

"Only a very little while, my dears," she says as I do up the locks. "I am quite good at getting out of these. You'll have to move quickly."

"Fine by me," I mutter to myself as I move over to Goh. He grins at me, like we've just shared a joke, and I grin back. Freed, the fact that he's lost his shirt somewhere along the line becomes more obvious. While he's looking around trying to find it, I take the opportunity to reassure myself he's not hurt. Under unmarked skin, the movement of the muscles of his back is mesmerizing, and reassuring. Goh isn't as fragile as he can sometimes look. I make sure to be looking somewhere else when he turns around, pulling on his shirt even though it's missing most of its buttons. God knows what he'd make of me staring at his back. "Let's get out of here," I suggest, and Goh doesn't argue. I make a point of not looking back at the far wall as we close the door to the cellar and make our escape, but I can hear chains clinking anyway.

When we get back to the apartment, Goh wastes no time in discarding his ruined shirt and walking around half-naked while he looks for a new one. I'm left trying to not look at him and trying not to look like I'm not looking at him, because he'd find either reaction hilarious and the man does not need to be encouraged.

Finally he admits that it'd be easier to find clothes in his bedroom than in the living room, and wanders out of sight. "That was fun," he calls back to me from the half-open door.

"Really."

It sounds like he's laughing at me. "And, we found the drugs."

I blink. "We did? I thought we found a torture chamber."

"And drugs." Goh comes out of his bedroom, looking smug. "They were inside the Iron Maiden. Guess she was hoping no one would want to look inside, in case somebody fell out on them." He leers as if people falling on him is always something to look forward to.

"When did you...I never saw any drugs!"

"Well, if you weren't so busy looking at my ass, you might have noticed." Smug doesn't cover half of it; he looks like the cat who's eaten the canary, the cream, and the five-layer dessert cake and managed to arrange all the evidence to point toward the dog.

I was not staring at his ass, I was staring at his back. "I was not staring at your ass!"

"It's okay," Goh says, in a compromising tone of voice, "it's a good ass. You can stare at it if you like." He drapes himself over the side of my chair, practically in my lap, and I don't even have time to think before instinct kicks in. Half a second and the knife that's usually in my left boot is instead pointed at the hollow of his throat. I'm not accustomed to people getting in my personal space. "Get off," I say, casually.

Goh frowns and puts up his hands in a conciliatory gesture, backing off. I wonder suddenly, with an unexpected stab of panic, if I've pushed too hard, but he just says, "Your loss," and gives me a look of pure exasperation. I try to keep looking tough as I slide the knife back into my boot and add 'random threats of violence' to the list of things that seem to work in this relationship.

A moment later Goh comes in with a pair of glasses, wafting a tantalizing smell of alcohol. He sits down -- a respectable distance away, this time -- hands me one, and regards me seriously. "That worked out well today," he says, and I consider. Aside from his stupidity and my gullibility and the crazy lady --

"Yeah," I say, "it did."

He grins. "So I'm worth it after all, huh?"

Like I'm going to give him that satisfaction. "Maybe." But Goh just laughs, and raises his glass.

"To us?"

What the hell. "To us."

 


End file.
